


Stuck On You ('Til the End of Time)

by LouLa



Series: The More You Know [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Humor, Knotting, M/M, Mating, Rimming, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't all that inclined to give Derek what he wants most of the time, it just so happens that occasionally their wants overlap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck On You ('Til the End of Time)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know that this classifies entirely as a standalone piece, as it does reference part 1 of the series, so I would recommend reading that beforehand, if you haven't already.
> 
> Again, this has only been self-edited, and I'm horribly sorry for any and all errors.
> 
> That said, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. I hope you enjoy!

Derek will show up at some point during the night, Stiles has learned that much over the past couple of weeks. Even if Really Bad Shit is going down with his wayward pack of miscreants, he'll still show up ― maybe later than usual, and maybe smellier than usual, and definitely, somehow, grumpier than usual, but he's there, nightly.

 

At first, and well, up and until the time being, actually, Stiles figured it was completely down to the fact that Derek had nowhere better to go. It's not like he could go home, considering there's nothing left there besides charred wood and blackened stone, and it just so happens that _home_ became hunter central after Derek ripped Peter's throat out in the front yard. The warehouse is great for pack meetings and all, but some blankets shoved into a corner doesn't make for a very nice bed, and Derek is too tall to be sleeping in his Camaro.

 

Stiles leaves his window unlocked, and it's been that way since the first time Derek knocked, eyes glowing creepily in the pale moonlight as he glared menacingly into the room. Honestly, Stiles had only opened the window to tell him to leave, but Derek invited himself in before he had the chance.

 

That whole 'I'm the Alpha' spiel didn't really work on Stiles then, and it doesn't work on him now, it's more just Derek himself, alpha or not. Stiles isn't all that inclined to give Derek what he wants most of the time, it just so happens that occasionally their wants overlap. He can't exactly deny Derek something when he wants the same thing himself.

 

Things have been quiet as of late, and it's not even a comforting fact. It just means that something is coming, they don't know when and they don't know what, but it's pretty much inevitable now that something new and not good is going to land on their doorstep ― though hopefully not literally, in Stiles' case, a werewolf crawling through his window and into his bed on a nightly basis is enough, thanks.

 

He's sprawled across his bed, Iron Man paused on his laptop as he texts Isaac that _no, you cannot borrow my jeep, don't think I've forgotten what happened last time_ , when Derek slips into his bedroom with nothing more than a cold draft and a quiet snick as he closes the window behind him. The chances are low that Stiles is _ever_ going to forget what happened the last time he let Isaac take the Jeep ― there's practically no chance that _anyone_ is going to forget what happened last time, considering a perfectly innocent girl was nearly maimed and killed by one irate alpha who claimed the Jeep absolutely _reeked_ of sex and girl and _sex_. Isaac thought Stiles' frantic phone call was hilarious, spent ten minutes deny-deny-denying until Derek's livid growl in the background eclipsed Stiles' begging to stop lying and made Isaac whine like a puppy and fess up.

 

No, Isaac is  _never_ borrowing the Jeep again, or anything for that matter. As far as Stiles is concerned, Isaac is permanently restricted from all of his things.

 

The plan is to focus on that, or the movie, or anything else for that matter, and hopefully never have to bring up the conversation he had with Scott and Allison tonight. Despite what Derek may think, everything is actually not his business, so Stiles is going to just keep this one to himself. Which means not thinking about it. Because if he thinks about it, he'll get all awkward and Derek will super-sniff it out, because, again, he thinks he has to know everything.

 

Unfortunately, the plan is failing, because Stiles is thinking about it, and he keeps unintentionally side-eyeing Derek, who is slowly making his way around Stiles' room like some drug-sniffing police dog, only there are no drugs, and Derek is just a nosy bastard and can probably smell the lingering awkward that was had by Allison and Scott and especially Stiles.

 

Surprisingly ― and maybe it shouldn't be surprising, Stiles is probably putting off a  _we're not talking about it_ vibe or something ― Derek doesn't ask. Stiles is almost positive that he wants to, but he doesn't, just carefully makes a spot for himself beside Stiles on the bed and watches the movie with him.

 

Stiles' dad is home, exhausted and resting after a too-long shift at the station, but home regardless and they have to be quiet. Derek is good at quiet, a champion at it, and Stiles can manage it, but he's still restless and fidgety, even if his mouth isn't going.

 

Iron Man ends, and Stiles wants to wax poetic about it, so he does, his head pillowed on Derek's arm, chin digging into his chest. Derek stares straight ahead, face blank, and looking very much like he's completely ignoring everything Stiles is saying to him, but he's not. Every word, Stiles knows, is registering; Derek's thoughts are likely focused more on what Stiles  _isn't_ talking about, and Stiles' babble doesn't seem to be working to distract him.

 

He gives up eventually, because he is  _weak_ , gives in without Derek even having to say anything at all, his will absolutely nonexistent. Whatever, it's Derek's fault. “Why didn't you even tell me I'm your mate?”

 

That,  _that_ manages to knock the whole  _I-give-not-one-fuck_ look off of Derek's face, as he tilts his head down to stare at Stiles with narrowed eyes. “What?”

 

Stiles huffs into his face and then uses Derek's chest to lever himself upright, glaring down at him. “Don't  _what_ me. I had every right to know. So you, what. Why didn't you tell me?” he asks, jabbing a finger into Derek's side.

 

“I've told you nightly for three weeks,” Derek says blankly, eyes all but burning holes into Stiles' skull, like he wants to get inside of his head and find the answers for himself. And hey, no, Stiles is the one with questions here, Derek can keep his laserbeam eyeballs to himself.

 

Honestly, Stiles would have remembered a “ _hey buddy, by the way, you're my mate_ ,” so clearly that didn't happen. He feels his face heat when he thinks about what  _did_ happen though, how Derek has apparently been telling him, remembering the deep, deep rumble of Derek's voice against his ear and the deeper fucked-wide-open pleasurepain of Derek knotting him.

 

And yeah, okay, maybe,  _maybe_ , Stiles should have realized what that was, but in his own defense, “ _I'm mating you_ ,” during sex sounds more like freaky werewolf dirty talk than an actual admission so.

 

Derek sighs and cuffs a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, squeezing lightly and holding there. “Why do you think I come here every night?”

 

“Oh, I don't know,” Stiles starts off carelessly, “free food, free wi-fi, a dry, warm place to sleep, _other things_ ,” he prattles off significantly.

 

“No. You're wrong,” is all Derek says to that. Stiles waits for more, an elaboration or explanation of any kind, but he doesn't get one.

 

“ _Okay_ ,” he draws out exaggeratedly, flopping back down beside Derek.

 

The silence stretches out. It makes Stiles uneasy, especially since he can feel Derek lying so tensed beside him, like he's waiting for something.

 

“You're my mate,” he says eventually, and Stiles immediately replies with, “Yeah, I got that, thanks.”

 

Then it's quiet again, just the sound of their breathing, a dog down the street barking, the furnace kicking on, the hum of Stiles' laptop fan.

 

Derek inhales like he's about to say something, then hesitates, and Stiles can feel himself holding his breath in anticipation, waiting for it, whatever Derek is going to say.

 

“Do you want to be?” he asks finally.

 

Stiles moves to sit up again, but Derek's hand holds him down. His jaw is tensed as he leans over Stiles, and Stiles is extremely aware of the weight pressed against his sternum, where Derek's hand rests, and just how easily he could squish Stiles like a bug if he wanted to.

 

But being aware of that and being afraid are two entirely separate things. He doesn't know when exactly he started to trust Derek, or when he stopped being afraid of him, but he thinks it's been longer than this whole _boyfriends-slash-mates_ thing has been going on. Vaguely, he wonders if he's smarter or stupider for realizing the risk and taking it anyway.

 

“It's not as if I have much of a choice, is it? I'm your mate,” Stiles answers.

 

Derek doesn't look entirely sure what to do with that, jaw tightening further and then loosening. “You have a choice,” he replies.

 

“Not really,” Stiles says. “Scott says we're like, gay werewolf married now and that divorce isn't an option, so I think that means it's for life, or until death, but that's kind of the same thing, huh. Which, yeah, would have been nice if you said something, you know, while you _weren't_ doing me in the butt. I mean, sure, I probably would have said something like, 'isn't it a little soon for rings,' but hey, I understand you just can't help yourself. All of this is pretty irresistible. You made a good decision in the long run, think about how _hot_ I'm gonna be when I'm your age.”

 

“Scott says,” he repeats, and Stiles thinks he's going to continue and ramble off what Stiles said Scott told him, but it's really just that.

 

_That's_ what he took from that. Just,  _Scott says_ . “Yeah. Scott says. He also says you made me your bitch.”

 

There's a rumbling sound coming from Derek's throat, and it's almost a growl, but not quite. It's too amused to be a growl. “You're my mate,” he says. “Scott's my bitch.”

 

A startled laugh bubbles out of Stiles' chest at that, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth, because his dad, he's so going to wake his dad, oh crap. But Derek's mouth beats him there, and his hand more or less smacks against the side of Derek's head, not that he notices or anything, his mouth pressed over Stiles'.

 

“Shh,” he hushes against Stiles' lips, and the giggles die just as suddenly as they started with Derek's lips gently nudging against his.

 

Stiles makes a pleased sound as he wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders, kissing him back. Derek pulls away much too soon, mouthing at Stiles' chin, his jaw, before he pushes himself up, out of reach of Stiles' insistent kissy face.

 

“You have a choice. You are my mate, but if you want this to end, then it will end. I won't be able to leave you alone if you're here. If this isn't what you want, you have to leave.”

 

“Doesn't really sound like much of a choice to me,” Stiles mutters. Then, at the sight of Derek's flaring nostrils, “I'm not going anywhere.”

 

That gets him a happy rumble, a quiet growl that sounds suspiciously like, “Mine,” and then Derek is nuzzling into his neck again, kissing sloppily at the skin of his throat.

 

“College, maybe, next year though. I'll have to leave for that,” Stiles mumbles, just throwing it out there.

 

“We'll talk about it later,” Derek says just before he sinks his teeth into the tender skin beneath Stiles' ear.

 

“Okay,” he concedes easily, eyes falling closed as Derek slides a thigh between Stiles' legs. “Wait,” he gasps quickly. “My dad.”

 

“Out cold. Downstairs. TV's on,” Derek assures between biting kisses.

 

“Good. Good.” Stiles nods dumbly, chin knocking against the top of Derek's head. “Clothes off,” he says. He plants his hands on Derek's shoulders and pushes, and Derek resists simply because he can, making Stiles grunt in frustration and then grunt in sexual frustration when Derek's thigh grinds down just right against him because he may be a teenager, and he may not have _that_ high of standards, but the first couple times of creaming his jeans were more than enough. “Clothes. Off,” he bites out, pinching Derek's chest.

 

Derek pulls back and hauls Stiles up with him by his shirt, yanking it over his head none too kindly. Stiles' arms flail as the shirt is jerked over his head, and with a pointed glare, he reaches forward and treats Derek to the same manhandling, though it's a whole lot less effective, considering Derek, super werewolf strength; Stiles, frail human weakness. He does manage to leave some scratch marks down Derek's arms though.

 

“Oops,” he says, mock-innocent.

 

“You're impossible,” Derek grumbles.

 

“Improbable,” Stiles corrects.

 

Derek shuts him up with a kiss, which happens more often than not, putting his mouth to better use ― and jeez, that is a joke that was old the first time it was used, now it's just ridiculous, not that it'll stop anyone, not even Stiles.

 

“I can think of an _even better_ better use for my mouth,” he says as soon as Derek pulls out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels to get Stiles out of the sweatpants he changed into after Allison and Scott left.

 

“I can think of at least a hundred better uses for your mouth,” Derek says, and Stiles gapes, mildly offended, and then he's naked and Derek adds, “Good, that's one of them,” and shoves his fingers into Stiles' open mouth. “Get them wet,” he instructs.

 

Being bossed around isn't one of Stiles' favorite things, not even in bed, but it's really difficult not to follow Derek's orders when they're such good ideas. As much as Stiles wants to shout a resounding  _fuck you_ at being told what to do, he complies because, yeah, wet fingers. He knows where those go. He's all for  _that_ , and it's kind of hot sucking on Derek's fingers anyway, watching Derek's eyes do that thing where they slowly darken, fixed on Stiles' mouth as he swallows them down, licks between them, drags his teeth over the rough pads of his fingertips.

 

“Over,” Derek says gruffly, palming Stiles' hip with his free hand and urging him onto his front. Derek's fingers slide free of his mouth with a quiet sound and Stiles rolls closer to the edge of the bed, face down on the mattress, ass held in the air by Derek's tight grip on his hip.

 

The hand lets go only momentarily, to spread Stiles open, Derek's thumb a dry pressure against him. Stiles tightens up instinctively, and then more so on purpose because  _no_ , he sucked those fingers wet for a reason, goddamn it, there's no call for that. But Derek's just nudging at him, pushing and staring at him. It makes Stiles go twitchy, makes him feel like he's about to lose his mind trying to stay still. It turns him on and makes him blush at the same time, knowing that Derek is just looking at him,  _there_ . The huge fucking pervert.

 

Derek's fingers are cool and tacky by the time he finally decides to put them to Stiles, drying. Stiles scrabbles his way across the bed, to the other side of it where the lube is in his bedside drawer, which turns into a feat with the way Derek is holding him in place, but he manages. He lobs the bottle over his shoulder, hears it connect with Derek's chest and fall to the mattress, to be knocked aside by one of Derek's knees and sent to the floor, where it rolls underneath the bed. Stiles sighs.

 

He shouldn't be surprised, really. Derek hates using it. He doesn't like the smell, he says. It's grape flavored, so Stiles thought, at first, that he just disliked grapes, but he refused to use the unflavored sample packet Stiles had nicked out of Danny's wallet during practice one day. He seemed just as adverse toward lotion, and every other thing Stiles threw his way ― quite literally, most of the time.

 

No, he liked to keep it natural.

 

Stiles makes an undignified sound at the feel of soft and slick where Derek's fingers are holding him open, tongue sweeping out against him in broad, wet licks. No matter how many times he does this ― and he does it  _all the time_ ― it still shocks Stiles. Whether he does it because he likes to, or if it's more to do with the fact that he just hates the smell of lube that much, Stiles doesn't know, but whatever it is, he keeps coming back, almost always comes back to this. Really though, Stiles is not complaining.

 

That undignified sound claws its way out of Stiles' throat again, and he reaches up to the head of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress beneath his pillows as he mashes his face into them, muffling the next moan that squeaks out of him.

 

One last long lick, and then Derek is twisting a finger into him. Stiles can feel his breath puffing hot against his thigh and knows that Derek is watching as he opens Stiles up ― slowly, and more slickly than he expects, or maybe he's just getting used to spit for lube. If he's not using spit to slick the way, than it's come, because Derek has some problems, but, again, Stiles is not complaining.

 

So Derek is a kinky weirdo in bed, and kind of a creep in general, but hey, Stiles likes it. That over-protective, emotionally-constipated, kinky-creeper-weirdo is his boyfriend, or his mate, or whatever they're calling it now, and he honestly can't think of a thing to complain about ― except for maybe the general moodiness and the random aggressive outbursts and the monthly hairy problem. But really, Stiles doesn't even mind those things, kind of likes them actually, which, wow, god. He's so fucked.

 

It doesn't feel like a bad thing, though, considering. Stiles isn't for everyone. Most people are so annoyed by him they can't bear more than five minutes in the same room. He's got a lot of his own problems, he knows that, can admit it to himself, but Derek doesn't care about any of that. He even, maybe, likes Stiles' downfalls too ― but that's a pretty big maybe.

 

“I can hear you thinking.” Derek speaks quietly over the sound of Stiles heavy breathing.

 

At first he wants to say  _no you can't_ , but instead asks, “What's it sound like?”

 

“Buzzing. Like a fly right beside my ear. Only slightly less annoying than the sound of your voice.”

 

“You're the one who mated me,” Stiles reminds him, not lightly.

 

“Like you said, I didn't really have much of a choice,” Derek quips back, and then, “Gonna _mate_ you again in a minute.”

 

“You,” he starts, completely intent on telling Derek off for being a dick, but he's cut off by the wet that drips and spreads around Derek's fingers ― which, _gross, Derek, don't fucking spit on me_ , but also, _yes_ , _do it again_ , and Stiles wishes his body and mind would just get along and find a happy medium between disgusted and hopelessly turned on so he can stop being so confused all the time ― and three of them splitting him open, “ _Fuck._ ”

 

“Definitely wouldn't have picked you on purpose,” Derek growls as Stiles grinds back against his fingers, taking more of them in.

 

“Fuck you, I could have anyone I wanted,” and Stiles knows it's a lie, but he says it anyway because he knows what it's going to get him, and bites down on the mattress to quiet himself when all three fingers are shoved into him roughly, as deep as they'll go. It's a punishment, definitely; his body so wasn't _there_ yet but the burn of the too-much stretch feels good.

 

Derek leans down over him, all muscle and hulking intimidation as he covers Stiles' body with his own. His smile is mean against the back of Stiles' neck, breath too hot and teeth too sharp as he worries the skin with his teeth, testing and warning bites, calming licks. “You could,” he growls, “but you won't.” He punctuates the words with another quick jab of his fingers, twisting them around until they're at the right angle and Stiles' whole body  _bows_ in submission to him. “Right?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles pants freely, nodding and rocking into the answer. “Just you.”

 

Stiles keeps nodding, keeps rocking, knees shaking and dick dripping, as Derek says it over and over, “Just me. Only me. No one else,” each word combined with another thrust, another push toward fucking Stiles open. “That's it,” he murmurs. “You want to be my mate,” he says as he slowly slides his fingers out, replaces them with his cock.

 

It's not even a question, but the answer is still yes, and whether Derek is asking or not, Stiles tells him, “Yeah, yes, your mate. Want to be your mate.”

 

“Make you have my pups.”  
  
That should maybe be a little disconcerting, considering Derek's never slipped up and said _that_ before. It's always been babies. Apparently he's going all out.

 

He pushes in too slow and pulls out too fast, only to start the whole agonizing process all over again. “I'll breed you like you're in heat.”

 

“Oh my god, you are so weird,” Stiles moans, choking out a laugh when his face is shoved harder to the bed. Derek rocks into him a little faster, lets up on the back of his head, and Stiles _knows_ he's asking for it when he says, “Spank me and call me your bitch.”

 

Derek growls into his ear, shoves his face into the bed again. “Don't tempt me.”

 

Stiles doesn't mean to ― they're supposed to be having serious sex here ― but he laughs again, can't really even believe his life. He expects more growling, some biting, threats, maybe, but Derek just nuzzles into the back of his neck, into his hair, snuffles against his ear. He hunches over him and hooks his chin into Stiles' shoulder, whining softly.

 

Whining. Stiles tilts his head to try to see Derek's face, but he can't from this angle, not at all, only gets the briefest flash of glowing red eyes before Derek's mouth covers his, kisses him soft and deep. He feels every inch of Derek's body against his own, Derek's rough stubble against the curve of his shoulder, the strength in his thighs spreading Stiles', and the knot, suddenly there.

  
Stiles freezes, whispers Derek's name, unsure. It's never been like this before. Always after, once Stiles has already come, loose and languid and riding the post coital wave of complete relaxation, that's how it's always been. Derek would go tense and still, staying hard and tight up inside of him for the longest time, but this. This is not that.

 

“Gonna keep you up on your knees like you should be, make you keep me in you longer. Come on, Stiles, take it.”

 

He does as he's told with a hurt gasp, surprised at how big it feels when Derek's all the way in, as far as he can go.

 

“Yeah,” Derek groans, voice rough. “Hold it in you, keep it in there.” His hips only push forward, never back, he's got nothing left to give except these rough little jostles that push Stiles closer to the headboard with every shove, knocking tight, worked up sounds out of his mouth.

 

“Derek,” he rasps, throat closing up with the pain of it. He can feel the knot getting harder and it feels like it's locking in place. Stiles is going tense on it, he knows that; he's making it worse, and it only feels like Derek is getting bigger. It'd be terrifying if he didn't know that Derek wouldn't hurt him. He wonders just how much he's been holding back, and how much he's letting go now.

 

Derek comes with a weak sound, holding Stiles in place with an arm wrapped tight around his chest. “Don't move,” he warns, “don't move, don't move.”

 

Stiles tries to listen, but the knot  _pulses_ inside of him and he can feel it, the throb and jerk of each spurt. He shifts at the feeling, barely at all, it feels like, but Derek goes wild, rutting deeper, growling, “Keep still.”

 

Whimpering, Stiles locks up, feels like a stretched wire ready to snap, at the breaking point. He doesn't know what to do, how to deal with the pain of it if he can't move at all, if Derek won't let him or won't move either, won't help him cancel it out, or how to ignore the pleasure of it to keep still, because every pulse inside of him makes him want to press back, rock forward, reach between his legs and feel the beat of it in his hand when he gets himself off, like Derek is shooting deep into him.

 

“Stiles,” Derek grunts, exasperated.

 

His weight shifts suddenly, pressing Stiles' upper body into the bed as he reaches down with both hands, one wrapping around Stiles' cock while the other goes further, touching where Stiles is stretched tight around Derek. It feel like Derek's moved even deeper, somehow; the angle is new and better, or worse, and Stiles is so close to shaking apart, can barely keep from moving as Derek's wrist _flick-flick-flick_ s over him.

 

He can hardly breath, gasping into the mattress, sobbing through it, and when Derek whispers, “You're making such a mess,” thumbing away some of the moisture before it catches on his other fingers, before it can slick the way to no friction at all, and Stiles snaps. Everything goes taut, and he feels like someone wedged a stone inside of him. Derek's knot is unforgiving, unyielding as Stiles' body wrings around it. It hurts in the best way, feels good in the worst, and Derek pets him through it, talks him through it, which is good because without the sound of Derek's voice to focus on, Stiles thinks he would pass out, just go limp and sag to the bed without Derek's arm there to hold him up.

 

It doesn't hurt much, after. He can feel Derek there, but everything feels softer, like the sharp edges have worn away. Derek helps him lay down, still stuck inside of him, but cradled back into his hips on their sides, instead of his burning thighs fighting to keep his ass up for them to stay tied.

 

He doesn't feel the knot soften up, even though he's trying to. He watches the clock, and knows it's done ten minutes later when Derek sighs against his ear, kisses his neck, and tells him to roll onto his stomach.

 

Derek disappears and Stiles shivers, watches the door until Derek comes back. He cleans Stiles up, the cloth warm between his legs, and nudges him over onto his back, his tongue warmer as he laps at Stiles' belly.

 

“Weirdo,” Stiles says fondly, scratching at Derek's hair. Derek glares up at him and nips at the skin around his bellybutton.

 

He wipes at the bed last, tossing the cloth with perfect aim into the overflowing laundry basket in the corner. “You're sleeping in the wet spot,” he says.

 

“You're sleeping on the floor,” Stiles replies.

 

Derek snorts as he stretches out along Stiles' side ― the dry side. “Good luck with that.”

 

“I hate you,” Stiles mumbles, curling up as close to Derek as he can get.

 

“Seems that way,” he mutters. Stiles doesn't miss the way his hand inches forward, not stopping until his fingers are fit perfectly against the curve of Stiles' hip. “You okay?”

 

Stiles hums. “Sore,” he answers honestly. More than usual, but not bad, either.

 

“Want me to kiss it better?”

 

“Hate you _so_ much,” Stiles groans, biting at Derek's chest.

 

“You're stuck with me.” Stiles laughs at Derek's poor choice of words, enjoying it probably more than he should when Derek forcibly rolls him onto his back, biting lightly at his throat. “Idiot,” he grumbles. “Go to sleep.”

 

He doesn't mean to do as Derek tells him to, he really doesn't.


End file.
